


Blood On Leather

by HalfwayToHell



Series: Wayward Sons [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Dark Winchesters, M/M, Possessive Dean Winchester, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfwayToHell/pseuds/HalfwayToHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester lived on violence--craved the coppery taste of blood and yearned for their victims pleading cries. After the altercation at Harvelle's Roadhouse, the boys had thought that the blood pumping, bone shuddering, breath catching action had settled for a little while. They were proven wrong after receiving an unsuspecting phone call: a call they had been waiting for for the past six years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood On Leather

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Dorothy- Missile  
> Welshly Arms- Dirty Work  
> Awolnation- Guilty Filthy Soul  
> The Brothers Bright- Awake O Sleeper  
> 

                                                      

* * *

 

 

 

There was so much of it.

 

Crimson petals dropped seemingly careless by a lover, the droplets glimmering and pulsing with life and dimming with a slow death. Red fingers clawing at the felt table, reaching for sovereignty, seeking redemption.

 

The tang of copper hung thickly in the air, the taste so palpable on Sam’s tongue as it swept out across his chapped bottom lip, testing the penny-like flavor of it. To say that the youngest Winchester had an obsession with blood would be a severe misjudgment.

 

Sam’s fixation on blood first started when he was thirteen, fresh out of elementary school and entering junior high. It was during those beginning weeks in his biology class that there had been an announcement that they would be getting their blood typed.

 

After all the consent forms had been sent home and signed, the day had arrived quickly. All of his peers buzzed with excitement and some with fear of the needles, but Sam did not feel anything toward it. He found it to be as trivial as dissecting a frog--the thought bored him.  

 

It was just blood after all.

 

Sam had seen enough of his own. Sometimes from his lip being cracked open when the winter months rolled around, sometimes from biting on his tongue when he and Dean wrestled too rough and sometimes it occurred when the dry, Kansas summer air became too much and he would wake in the middle of the night with blood staining his pillow and his nose dripping.

 

No. His blood infatuation began with someone else’s.

 

The children were split up into groups of two: Sam having the misfortune of being paired with a teary-eyed little girl who kept whimpering about her fear of needles and continuously asking him how he was so calm about it. To keep his sanity--and to refrain from snapping at the girl--Sam remained silent, blocking out her whining that was slowly grating on every nerve he had in his small, lanky, preteen body.

 

It was a true test of his patience.

 

Luckily--for both of their sakes--it was their turn. Sam sat still as a statue as the biology teacher disinfected his finger with a cold cotton ball and rigid still when she pricked his finger with a little butterfly pin. She squeezed his finger, causing blood to bubble up from his small pin-prick of a wound until there was enough that she could take a proper sample.

 

The youngest Winchester watched silently, his finger wrapped in a purple and white polka dot band aid as his biology teacher rubbed a cotton ball against the girl’s finger and she looked away, hiding her face in the crook of her other arm, giving a small whimper of fear.

 

Sam was unsure as to why he kept watching, but he did.

 

When the first bloom of blood bubbled out of her wound, something in the youngest Winchester shifted--something awakened, a great hulking beast, spreading out its cramped wings to shake loose the proverbial dust of time.

 

It was an odd sensation at first, his confusion intertwining with the new emotion he had yet to identify. It was not until he felt a hot coil in his lower abdomen, a burning rush flaring up his body, and a tightness in his jeans that he realized what was happening to him.

 

Sam was turned on by the sight of blood--of someone else’s blood.

 

Even now as the younger Winchester stared at the crimson fingers that slowly crawled down the green velvet, the very same flushed heat licked up his body, causing his cock to twitch. He reached out, dipping his fingers in the pooling blood and he rubbed his fingers thoughtfully together, the warm slick of it between his fingers caused another flare of heat to rush up his body.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brady’s group of friends jump forward in an attempt to save their friend from his older brother’s rage. The younger Winchester stuck his pool stick out, striking the men across their chests with it, blocking them.

 

“I wouldn’t,” Sam warned before a Cheshire grin crept over his lips. “Unless you’d like to end up like your friend,” At this, he lowered his pool stick, a challenging glint in his kaleidoscope eyes. “then be my guest.”  

 

Just as he suspected, the group of men backed off, but their eyes all glanced at Brady with faces twisted in apology and sympathy and anguish. The mere fact that they could do nothing to help their friend made Sam’s heart flutter, the beast awakening again— _stirring_ and its wings opened once more.

 

A pained whimper came from Brady and the youngest Winchester returned his attention upon him, his head tilting with slight interest.

 

Dean still had the man pinned to the table, his face pressed into the felt. The eldest Winchester’s hand slipped down from his neck to grab at the back of his shirt, hauling him up ever so slightly. Brady reached a shaking hand up to his mouth, where he coughed, the sound like sandpaper scrapping together. Blood pooled into the palm of his hand, small, white islands jutting out of the red sea.

 

Teeth.

 

A frightened cry came from Brady as Dean grabbed a fist full of his hair, wrenching his head back, choking off his cry. The eldest Winchester had long abandoned his pool stick, his other hand preoccupied by Michael—the knife John had given him for his sixteenth birthday.

 

It was a sick joke really, choosing to call a blade by a name that was supposed to be used for a warrior of Heaven, leader of a celestial army. Instead, all Dean’s blade did was leave death and blood and destruction in his wake; hardly something that deserved such a pure name.

 

The silver of the knife flashed, light from the lamp above the table catching onto it as he pressed it against Brady’s throat. The other man’s hands shot up to the hand that held his hair, a terrified sob slipping past his bloodied lips and he writhed in Dean’s grasp, freezing only when the eldest Winchester pressed the blade harder into his throat.

 

“Please--” Brady started to beg, a sob bubbling up from deep within him.

 

Dean wrenched his head back farther, causing another cry of pain to come from him. “Say another word,” warned the eldest Winchester, the fingers on the hilt of his knife tightening ever so slightly. “and I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Brady bit his lower lip, his eyes screwed shut and he swallowed hard, remaining silent.

 

Sam could see the tremors of fear that took hold of the other man, his body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, threatening to break off at the stem at any moment. His throat trembled and sweat pooled at the base of his neck. A steady stream of blood trickled from his nostrils, past his lips, and over his chin, where the ruby droplets landed on his brother’s hand. Brady’s chest heaved frantically like a fledgling bird and tears glistened on his eyelashes--threatening to fall.

 

The youngest Winchester wanted to see the tears slip down his cheeks, yearned to hear the terrified whimpers fall from the man’s trembling lips, but what he craved even more, was for Brady to spill more precious blood.

 

“Didn’t think I would catch you starin’ at my baby brother?” Dean asked Brady, who gave a whimper. “Didn’t think I wouldn’t see the lust in your eyes? See the way you were starin’ at Sammy like you wanted to bend him over this pool table,” At this, another whine came from Brady, this one loud and full of protest, but it was choked off when Dean pressed his lips against his ear, his blade still against the other man’s throat.

 

“I saw the way you were eyein’ his body, thinkin’ about runnin’ your hands over him, explorin’ _every. Single. Inch_ of his flesh. I saw the way you stared at his mouth, thinkin’ about how _perfect_ his pink lips would be wrapped around your cock and even perfect still when he’s chokin’ on it.”

 

With each accusation his older brother made, Brady tried to writhe away—tried to twist and hide from the truth. The thing about the eldest Winchester was this: he was hardly ever wrong, especially about what the men were thinking that happened to be leering at his little brother.

 

“And _then,_ ” Dean ground out, digging his blade in against the man’s throat until he gave a sharp cry, blood trickling down his neck. “when you were good and hard, you’d bend Sammy over—or maybe get him on his hands and knees—before you’d slide into the _tight. Warm. Perfect_ heat of his ass. D’you wanna know how I know what you’re thinkin’ Brady? How I could see right through you?”

 

His eyes opened then, bright blue eyes drowning in glimmering tears that were threatening to fall and Sam thought about how pretty of a shade they were when their eyes met for a moment. Brady was pleading for him to make his big brother drop the blade, pleading for him to make Dean _stop_. His pleas only fell on eyes void of empathy, void of any emotion that would make Sam Winchester human.  

 

“Because I’ve had those very same thoughts, but I’m able to fulfill my needs. Sammy here? He bends over for me without me havin’ to ask him. And that’s the difference between you and me, Brady. You’ll _never_ get the chance.”

 

Clear pearls fell from Brady’s eyes, rolling down his cheeks. Great sobs racked his chest and he screwed his eyes shut once more, biting his lower lip.

 

Sam moved in closer to his brother, sliding up behind him to snake his hands around his brother’s waist. His mouth caught onto the eldest Winchester’s neck, teeth gliding against taut flesh.

 

“Do it, Dean,” Sam breathed against his throat, the beast pacing in his chest. “I want to see him bleed.”

 

The adrenaline kicked in and Brady started to fight, writhing and twisting in the eldest Winchester’s grasp. It was made obvious that he had forgotten—momentarily—about the knife until it nicked farther into his flesh, causing him to still.

 

“Oh God. _Please._ _Please don’t kill me,_ ” Brady begged, his voice pitching in fear and his chest heaved with his sobbing. “ _Please._ ”

 

Dean’s fingers twitched against the hilt of the knife, the muscles in his hands and arm flexing. The anticipation of it made Sam’s breath catch in his throat, his heart pounding in his ears and the beast clawed at the bone-bars of his rib cage, demanding to be set free.

 

“Sam! Dean!” Uncle Bobby’s voice sliced through the thick air, shearing their twisted fantasy. “What in Sam Hill d’you think you’re doin’?”

 

The younger Winchester felt the annoyance seep from his brother, sinking into his own flesh as he slowly raised his sharp, pine irises, locking them onto Bobby’s.

 

Ellen stood beside the older man, her eyes blown open in horror and her hands rested on his arm, clinging to him in terror. Not too close behind them, was Jo and Ash, the girl clutching onto him. Bobby’s hand was resting upon the pistol in the holster around his hip. 

 

A long, tense moment passed before Dean smiled then, releasing some of the pressure from Brady’s throat.

 

“Teachin’,” replied the eldest Winchester with his usual smoother than glass smile, but this time there was a slight crack in the fluidity of it.

 

“I don’t know what kinda lesson you’re tryin’ t’ teach boy, but it ain’t happenin’ here,” Bobby said, and his eyes narrowed at Dean, daring him to challenge his authority. A relieved whimper came from Brady then. “Now you two get on outta here. You hearin’ me, boys?”

 

There was a hesitation, but only for a fraction of a heartbeat before Dean’s smile twisted into a crude smirk. “Sure. Whatever you say, Uncle Bobby,” He lowered his voice and to Brady, said, “If I see your face in Lawrence again, I’ll remove it.”

 

Dean tossed the other man back. The forced was enough to make Brady stumble, his head cracking against the wooden wall behind him and a pained gasp punched from his lungs. He slid down the wall, folding in on himself, cowering away from the Winchesters as they passed.

 

Sam paused, lowering himself into a crouch in front of the man. He reached out, grabbing gently at his smaller wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. The youngest Winchester’s notions were so soft, so tender, that is was mocking. He tipped Brady’s chin up, forcing the other to look at him with wide, terrified eyes.

 

Sam leaned in, hearing the other man’s breath catch before their lips touched. It was hardly a kiss, nor could it classify for one in the way that their mouths had barely brushed against each other’s, but it was almost as if Sam was wishing Brady a silent goodbye, a parting gift he wouldn’t soon forget.  

 

Brady was reduced to a sobbing, quivering mess when the Winchesters finally turned their attention away from him.

 

The two had barely rounded the corner of Harvelle’s Roadhouse when Dean’s hand clamped around the back of Sam’s neck, fingers twisting his hair and he pushed him against the wooden wall, his face pressed into the roughness of the limber, the earthiness of it invading his senses. The youngest Winchester’s hands braced against the wall, fingers scraping against it as he felt his brother’s weight behind him, a soft moan falling past his lips when Dean pressed the entire length of his body flush against Sam’s.

 

“ _You,_ ” Dean breathed into his brother’s ear, nipping at his earlobe. “are such a fuckin’ tease.”

 

The beast curled in Sam’s gut, twisting his intestines in a heart shaped knot. “Yeah,” murmured the younger Winchester, grinding back suggestively against his brother’s crotch. “But I thought you got off on that.”

 

A deep growl came from the eldest Winchester and he could feel the vibration of it radiate through his brother and into his back. One of his hands gripped bruise-hard onto Sam’s hip, forcing him to still and it caused the younger Winchester to whimper in protest.

 

“I get off on a lot of things, little brother.” One of his free hands reached around to palm at Sam’s hardening cock, a soft moan bubbling out of his throat and it made Dean chuckle low in his own throat. “But what I get off most on, is the look in your eyes when I spill someone’s blood. I know it gets you hard, Sam. Seein’ red on my knife.”

 

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam begged, his hands curling and uncurling against the wood. “ _Please._ ”

 

The eldest Winchester whirled him around, pressing his brother’s back into the wall. The hand that had been twisted in Sam’s hair slid up to his throat, wrapping his fingers around his neck, not applying pressure. The other hand still stayed gripped onto his hip and Dean slid a knee between his little brother’s legs, pinning him.

 

“You can moan like a two cent whore in bed, Sammy, but I won’t fuck you behind a bar like one, got it?” Dean said, his voice stern and there was a sharp edge to his eyes, the green of them cutting through the dark.

 

Sam looked down at his brother through a half-lidded gaze, his thick eyelashes framing his kaleidoscope irises that were blown wide open, a black pool in the center of green and blue and brown and gold.

 

“Yeah, De,” murmured the youngest. “I got it.”

 

His brother smiled, a smirk curling at his lip. “Good.” Dean leaned in, pressing his mouth hard against Sam’s. When he leaned back, he caught his brother’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on Brady’s drying blood on his brother’s mouth, eliciting a whimper from Sam. “Now let’s get you home so I can fuck you senseless.”

 

† † † † †

 

“Has Uncle Bobby said anything to you about last night?” Sam asked his brother the next morning, standing in front of the sink in the bathroom. He wiped a damp washcloth across Dean’s jacket, removing Brady’s dried blood from the leather.

 

“Nah. I think Bobby’s given up on tryin’ to tame us,” replied his brother from the archway of the door.

 

A smile crept across Sam’s lips and he glanced over at his brother. Dean leaned against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his bare chest, beads of water still clinging to his flesh like dew on flower petals from the morning’s shower. His faded jeans hung low on his hips, exposing the perfect V of his hipbones.

 

“You would think he would have given up a long time ago.” Sam returned his attention back onto his task at hand.

 

Dean scoffed. “You’d think.”

 

Sam felt his brother’s arms snake around his waist, fingers sliding up underneath the white tank top he wore. Dean ran his blunt nails along the muscle of his younger brother’s abdomen, teasing the flesh. A soft sigh fell from Sam’s parted lips when the eldest Winchester ran his lips along the side of his neck, nipping at him.

 

Sam released the washcloth and his brother’s jacket to turn around and face him, his lower back pressed into the edge of the bathroom counter. He traced his finger along the tattoo above his brother’s heart, S.W. carved into Dean’s flesh when Sam was sixteen. The younger Winchester had his own, etched into the same spot, only with his brother’s initials.

 

It had hurt, neither one of them could deny that, but they had expected nothing short of painful when using sharpened calligraphy pens to create their own tattoos. Except that they both wanted them. Wearing each other over their hearts--it had been a sappy move in Dean’s opinion, but he knew Sam needed some kind of constant reminder of him in case something ever went south.

 

After Dean had been released from prison--a year in county jail, before he was moved to prison for the last two years of his sentence when he turned eighteen--is when they got the tattoos. The eldest Winchester had beat a fifteen year old to death who had a known streak for picking on Sam when he was thirteen. Dean had had the final straw, taking a car iron to the boy’s head until he had stopped moving, and even long past when the boy had taken his final breath, Dean continued to whale on him with his weapon.

 

There was a lot of rage in the eldest Winchester, that much was for certain, but the county judge--who was in Uncle Bobby’s pocket--wrote it off as Dean merely defending his little brother, but could not deny the fact that Dean had still committed murder, only gave him three years, plus another five on probation once he was set free.

 

“Hey,” His brother said gently, grabbing the back of Sam’s neck, tugging him down until his forehead was nestled against his big brother’s. “Come back to me.”

 

Sam smiled, pushing the painful memory away. “Sorry. Just tired.”

 

There was a glint in Dean’s eyes that betrayed that he did not fully believe the younger Winchester, but he decided to leave well enough alone and instead smiled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have rode you so hard last night--or well, maybe _you_ shouldn’t have rode _me_ so hard.”

  
Sam rewarded his older brother with one of his infamous glares and Dean had told him once that his “bitch face” could give Wednesday Adams a run for her money. The more the younger Winchester gave him “the look”, the more Sam believed his brother’s jest.

 

“I’m still sore,” Sam said flatly.

 

Dean rolled his eyes and gave his little brother a hard kiss on the mouth before stepping away. “Quit your bitchin’. Or else you can fuck yourself from now on.”

 

It was now Sam’s turn to scoff. “As if you would let me. You chastised me when you found the dildo in my bottom drawer.”

 

“If you’re goin’ to take dick, you might as well take a real one, Sammy,” Dean sniffed, holding his hand out expectantly for his jacket.

 

Sam only handed it over after he gave his brother a quick kiss on the cheek and he smiled. “So you keep reminding me.”

 

“Damn straight.”

 

† † † † †

 

The tang of grease and the heady scent of gasoline whirled around Sam as he sat on an overturned bucket, a calculator balancing on one knee while his other leg was occupied with a checkbook, chewing on the end of the ballpoint pen in his hand. The hot Kansas air seeped into the garage of the Bunker, causing a bead of sweat to bloom on his forehead, wiping it away with the back of his hand before it could fall.

 

The Bunker: Mechanic and Car Restoration shop belonged to John Winchester before he had taken off. Now Sam and Dean ran it--Dean being the mechanic and Sam being the bookkeeper. Running the family business was one of the surest ways for the Winchesters to keep themselves out of trouble, although it seemed that trouble always managed to find them.

 

The Winchesters spent most of their childhood--if not all of it--growing up in the shop. Their father had been a mechanic by day and a ruthless biker President by night. Sam could recall all the hours that he and Dean had spent helping their father around the shop; cleaning up oil spills, handing him the tools he needed, and once they came of age, even learning how fix and restore vehicles and motorcycles.

 

After the house fire, John had paid Bobby for a piece of property on his junkyard before he built the shop. Underneath the seemingly simple mechanic shop, was the bunker--Sam and Dean’s home. There they lived and slept and ate. Both were unsure as to why their father had built a home beneath a car shop, only giving them the simple answer that it was “safer”, but neither of the Winchesters pushed it much farther than that.

 

Sam glanced up from the checkbook, his head throbbing from the numbers and the calculations. He sat aside the calculator and the paperwork to light a cigarette, cherry flavored smoke wafting around him. The youngest Winchester watched quietly as his brother worked on an Oldsmobile.

 

Sweat shined on his arms, mingling with the grease and dirt caked onto his flesh. Dean had long abandoned his leather after the unforgiving heat had settled in, having folded it up on the chair in the office. Now he wore a black short sleeved shirt, a long strip of sweat running down the length of his spinal column, drenching his shirt. Sam knew it was only a matter of time before the eldest Winchester could no longer stand the heat and would remove his shirt.

 

Putting out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, Sam stood, tucking the remaining cigarette behind his ear and made his way into the back office. He pulled out two cold beers from the small portable fridge in the corner of the room before he returned.

 

Dean glanced up as Sam approached, his eyes immediately falling onto the glass bottles in his brother’s hands and he smiled, leaning away from the vehicle.

 

Taking the offered beer from his brother, Dean leaned in, hot mouth pressing against Sam’s. The youngest Winchester could feel the other mechanics--some belonging to the Wayward Sons--glance away.

 

Sam would have guessed that by now, all of them would have been accustomed to their intimacy in public, but it was made quite clear that having an openly incestuous relationship with your brother was still highly frowned upon.

 

“Thank you, baby boy,” Dean said appreciatively before he popped the cap from the beer, taking a long swig of the cold drink.

 

Sam smiled. “You’re welcome, De.” He opened his own beer, taking a quick sip, eyes mulling over the state of the car. “Still not running?”

 

Dean gave a loud, irritable sigh. “It’s a piece of shit. Not even worth the fix. Tried tellin’ that to the old geezer, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

 

The younger Winchester’s smile widened, interest peaking. “Let me guess. You told him you would fix it to get him out of the shop?”

 

“It was either that, or he’d find himself stuffed into the trunk and pushed into the nearest body of water.”

 

Sam chuckled. “I’m surprised you even gave him a choice.”

 

“Wasn’t in the mood, Sammy-- _still_ not in the mood,” Dean said.

 

The pitching shrill of the phone ringing caused an irritable look to pass over Sam’s features. Handing his beer over to his brother for him to hold, Sam walked briskly to the office. Taking in a deep breath, the youngest Winchester picked the phone up.

 

“The Bunker: Mechanic and Car Restoration.” Sam feigned interest as he spoke into the receiver, although on the inside, he was simply aggravated.

 

“Hey, Sam.”

 

The voice that came over the other line was so painfully familiar, that the youngest Winchester felt an icy stab to his heart and the pain was so palpable, that he even reached up to hold his chest with his free hand, fingers twisting into his plaid shirt.

 

His heart beat wildly in his chest and his eyes were wide, staring through the glass to meet his own brother’s curious stare, which quickly shifted to a pinch of worry between his eyebrows when he caught the shock in his little brother’s eyes.

 

“Dad.” His voice felt like a wisp of air leaving his lungs, barely audible enough to form such a simple, but heavy laced word.

 

“Yeah, kiddo. It’s me,” John Winchester confirmed on the other line. “We need to talk.”

 

* * *

 

                                                                          


End file.
